A Man Of His Word

..2..

VERDANTIS MINOR WAS A RADIANT agri-moon in a small rural system within the Immrian Belt sub sector, along the eastern rim of Ultima Segmentum. El Arbora was a benign looking grey-brown blemish upon a green patchwork of luxuriant croplands that wrapped around the southern hemisphere of the moon. From the window of a transport shuttle it could easily be mistaken for something pleasant and quaint amongst all those neat, square tracts of zerrafam and catelepsean bean. Up close, however, it was anything but quaint or pleasant.

'Good time for hunting,' the mudhop vendor in Old Town had said to him through teeth that looked as though they had been chewing through engine oil.

They all had black teeth in these parts. If it was not the tropical gum infections that gave them a black grin, it was the wads of zerrafam tabac they habitually chewed and spat out in long streams of goop as dark and viscous as the mud they grew it in.

The vendor's right eye had been surgically enhanced with a red-tinted oculus. It made Greon wonder if the man had also spent time in the Guard. Not many El Arborans could afford such blessings from the Machine Spirit.

'It's racitor season, if you don't know. But by the Sweat Upon the Holy Throne, I ain't seen them spawn thick as this in fifty year', no sir! No one knows what's got into their big, ol' horny heads. Got folks comin' in from all ends of the Belt, lookin' for a trophy or other. Got no idea what trouble they'll get their selves into once they come up on one, mind!'

The old man spat over his shoulder, gesturing to the flooded forests and mudflats beyond the sprawling mess of his stall. 'We got eight million acres of black mud and treacle-slow bayous out there, and not a map to show for any of it. All El Arborans know it by heart, but folks like yourself need to keep their mind about them, hear? You got clutcher-vines, weeper nettles, zip-biters and frangleen leeches; not to mention racitors so big they'll ought to as not swallow you whole.'

'I know it,' Greon replied. 'I grew up in these parts.'

The mudhop vendor looked at him dubiously then, as though Greon were some offworlder dullard, perhaps suffering some sort of head trauma, or perhaps testing the length and breadth of the old goat's wits for no other reason than his own sick offworldly pleasure. The accent had been kicked out of Greon long ago.

'Is that so? Where you from then, boy?'

'Ironfig hold, originally.' Greon watched the old man's eyes startle at that.

'Well, mud in my britches, will you look at that! You come down with that last shuttle? You one of them Imperial boys on your leave, lookin' for a bit of downtime in old El Arb D?'

'That's me.'

The old man's smile was all black and twisted. He leaned forward then in a conspiratorial manner as all old locals do. 'You better be watching out for all them mudholds downstream, I'm tellin' you – Ironfig included. Been a lot of folk gone missing down them ways. Best take care and keep your scoot this end of the delta. Too many racitors and not enough men to hunt 'em down to more mannerly numbers, that's what I've been tellin' good people like yourself. Happens once in a hundred years. The Black Spawn we call it. Dangerous times. Can't kill enough of 'em. We're even seein' them come all the way up the waterways here into Old Town.'

'I'll remember that.'

The old mudhop vendor actually reached out then and clutched his forearm. It was a grip that hurt, which was commendable, since few men had arms like Greon Reacchus.

'Then don't forget it, boy. You stay up this end, and you stay safe, hear? I don't need no Imperial grunt gettin' all chewed up in my backyard, bringing his angry superiors in with their questions and dat' slates and such into town. Bad for business, you got me?'

Greon had pulled his arm away, wanting to give the man a taste of his hard left hook. He checked his temper and took a slow, deep breath. Fighting alongside commissars for years had taught him how to keep a cool head. 'I got you, old man. Now how much for that scoot over there?'

The vendor had cackled and wheezed. 'That one yonder with the old Alvar Edna motor?'

'That's the one.'

'I'll give it to you for nine-five, seein' as you're back home and deserve a fair price from an honest mudhop dealer like Chagwin Mulbar.'

'Throw in a full tank of premium grade spirit and one of them racitor guns, Chagwin Mulbar, and I'll be happy to give you fifty for it.'

The old goat glared at him then as if he had just called war upon him and all his sons and family. Then those black teeth flashed and he let out a loud whoop of pleasure. 'You sure is from round here then, drivin' a hard bargain like that! Not bad for a young pup. Well, that's a done deal, Guard boy! Fifty it is. These racitor guns are some of the best you'll find within a hundred klicks in any one direction.'